You can't beat a good British summer, can you? There's nothing I like better on a Saturday afternoon in July than sweeping floods of water out of the garage, while hail crashes on the garage door and thunder and lightning disport themselves in the heavens.
I even let out an involuntary "Aaaaah," as I spotted a wedding car drive by, its wipers frantically trying to clear some vision for the driver.
Better than my usual "It'll all end in tears," I suppose.
As I was brushing out the burgeoning garage lagoon, a soggy and dishevelled figure poked his head round the door.
"Have you got an old towel?"
Was this some kind of survey? I thought not.
"What for?" I asked, not unreasonably.
"Because I'm in a mini-bus and I'm soaking wet. I want to dry myself off."
Although I was having trouble with the chain of logic (Where did the mini-bus come into it? Why me?), I gave in to my better side and scuttled back into the kitchen fetching forth my kitchen towel.
"Not very big, I'm afraid."
He took it and disappeared.
After about five minutes, a mini-bus drove away.
Mr Zip: Dispenser of Free Towels to the Terminally Damp. I ask you!